


No Silent Night

by Deans_Fetish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blasphemy, Dark Christmas Fiction, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8732410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deans_Fetish/pseuds/Deans_Fetish
Summary: There’ll be no Christmas celebration this year.





	

He should have known; should have known that his brother wouldn’t be able to not scratch. 

He remembered when Sam was little and had the chicken pox, he’d scratched them too, no matter how many times he had told his brother not to, Sam had scratched. The skin of his hip still bore the scars of his scratching. Now bleached and faded with time, tanned over and nearly invisible to the naked eye. 

But Dean had known they were there, had known that Sam couldn’t help himself and those scars were testament to that. 

Yet, he’d been a fool thinking that this would be any different. He had done this to Sam. It was his fault just as much as if he’d aimed a gun and pulled the trigger. He was the reason Sam’s dead body lay burning before him now. 

The worst part of it all had been the look of horror and panic, the desperate plea in the depths of his brothers eyes as he’d looked at him when that wall Death had made had come tumbling down. 

For two months straight Sam had screamed due to the memories of his time in the cage bombarding his brain. Sam had been a shell of his former self, drooling and banging his head into walls, curled in on himself in the corner of the panic room. Neither he nor Bobby knowing what to do, how to ease Sam’s suffering, though he had tried. 

God how he had tried….

Nothing worked, absolutely nothing. It was obvious that Sam wasn’t going to make it, refusing to eat, to move from his huddled position. 

Finally it had been Castiel who had put Sam out of his misery when neither he nor Bobby had possessed the strength to be able to. 

The silence had been deafening, and yet louder than life Dean had heard their father telling him how much of a failure he was. 

He’d failed to save Sam. 

Failed to look out for his little brother.

He’d been selfish wanting his baby brother back despite the complications that might arise. 

Castiel had tried to warn him and yet he hadn’t listened. 

Tears rolled slowly down the elder Winchester’s cheeks as he watched his baby brother’s body burn away a few moments longer. A muscle twitched in Dean’s jaw as he turning and walked back to the Impala and tugged open the door, sliding in behind the wheel. Starting the car, he pulled recklessly out of Bobby’s, tires slip sliding against slush and ice. 

He drove aimlessly through town, the Christmas lights glowing against the stark white of the newly fallen snow, Carolers singing as they walked through the streets not even registering to his anger and grief fogged brain. His mind completely focused on replaying the last few months, the sight of his brother’s body burning. 

His foot pressed down harder on the accelerator as he drove out of the hustle and bustle toward the abandoned streets on the outskirts of town, teeth clenched, jaw set in harsh lines. 

Signs announcing that the bridge up ahead was out not affecting the elder Winchester’s speed as the Impala raced forward. 

The last thing Dean saw in his mind’s eye was the unspoken plea in his brother’s eyes as the Impala went over the edge of the bridge, crashing onto the jagged rocks hundreds of feet below. 

Blood covered the jagged broken edges of glass from the windshield of the mangled classic car, the front seat devoid of passengers; Dean’s body having been thrown from the car out of the windshield. 

His body lay several feet behind covered in blood, neck and limbs twisted grotesquely like a puppet whose strings had been severed. 

Above the wreckage, Castiel stood at the edge of the bridge, his bead bowed, gazing down at the body of the elder Winchester forlornly before he lifted his head, face tilting up toward Heaven, a weary sigh escaping him. 

It was not a silent night in this; our Winchester Gospel….

 

_It was not a silent night, there was blood on the ground, you could hear a woman cry in an alley way that night in the streets of David’s town… - Labor Of Love, Jill Phillips._


End file.
